Poetry by Olumide Manuel
Here, they say death is not a constant. Silence is.
To excurse this is to walk the naked miles, the stringed oms
of a tower bell. The pilgrim's steps growing leaner towards faith
towards the cathedral of clenched truths,
monastery of seagulls' lament. Verily, we say the throne of gravity
has no hearth in his kingdom, and it suffers no formula
neither will I fall under the weight of shame. The limit
& the unit of hope is punctuations and I boast of no mastery
and if the moon is the only excuse, may this albedo bloom
into half-beasts & towns of evening mourners.
The greatest tragedy is to become wind, disabled
from touching yourself. The metaphor here is that
we are one body transposing between heathenry of theorems
where we wear the same abode skin of grief and rage and
silence of caskets for knives and rafts but we cannot cut ourselves.
the subscripts between living & death is the little gospel
in my throat, eating the blueness of still oceans, eating
the stillness of dreams.